


Picking up the shards of our love, and more

by Lonely_Broccoli



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Anxiety Attacks, Basically just a really depressing fic, Character Death, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-09-20 14:39:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17024553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonely_Broccoli/pseuds/Lonely_Broccoli
Summary: Bokuto Koutarou had every reason to look forward to his future.Akaashi doesn't understand why he ended it, by himself.Broken souls need time to mend, but Akaashi isn't sure if he can ever move on. It's too late when he learns that the person who gave light to his heart was the one soul he couldn't save.





	1. The last time our fingers brushed together

**Author's Note:**

> This motherfucker (me) decided to take on ANOTHER. BOKUAKA FIC.  
> I'm warning yall in advance that yes, Bokuto doesn't get a happy ending. And yes, this fic touches on suicide, depression and more I will add as this progresses.  
> Don't read this if you're uncomfortable. Stay safe.

A morning breakfast was all that it was meant to be.  
  
Akaashi shovelled two large onigiri into his mouth, both filled with his grandmother’s pickled plums. The sourness matched pleasantly with the rice that gathered on his tongue, and it compelled him to start the day with less fatigue and more hope for the day.  
  
His mother turned on the television, and his heart sank.  
  
**_Third Year High School Student Jumps to his Death at Train Platform._**  
  
The high school student had died only yesterday evening. It pained Akaashi when he caught sight of the news caption, which added the extra information that the student was a male, and eighteen years old. Most likely a suicide attempt, he heard the reporter say.  
  
It wasn’t a good kind of feeling, starting the day off listening to someone talk about the suicide of a student. Eighteen years old. The same age as his third year upperclassmen. Same as Konoha, Sarukui, _Bokuto_. Eighteen years old, and the student had decided that ending his life was better than carrying on, discovering more, connecting with his world.  
  
_**The student has been identified as Bokuto Koutarou, a student who excelled in volleyball and---**_  
  
Akaashi’s stomach dropped. A thousand knives dug into his chest. Bokuto Koutarou wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. His ace, his best friend, his boyfriend. A ringing in his ears cancelled out the monotone voice that went on about how onlookers had witnessed the high school student throw himself in the path of a bullet train. Akaashi’s brains were being churned to mush, as the image of his smiling captain shattered.  
  
Bokuto Koutarou, his light and partner, existed in his world no more.  
  
Bokuto Koutarou, _gone._  
  
Bokuto Koutarou, another statistic. A mess to be picked up and put into a plastic bag.  
  
A choked gasp was ripped from Akaashi’s throat. Then another. He was standing now, losing his sense of whereabouts. “Kou,” the name slipped out of his mouth, never to be heard by the owner again.  
  
“Kou-Koutarou.”  
  
No tears were streaming down Akaashi’s cheeks, but he could feel bits of himself start to chip off. He opened his mouth, but no words slipped past his cracked lips. Bokuto wasn’t dead. He was going to meet him at school today, he was going to bug Akaashi for extra tosses. He was going to drop his ice pop and wail until Akaashi gave him a bite of his own.  
  
“Keiji!”  
  
His mother’s arms wrapped around him, and he collapsed into her touch. “Koutarou,” he whispered into the fabric of her shirt. His mother shook her head, holding her son tighter.  
  
It wasn’t fair. Since when had Bokuto’s smiles become less real and more of a mask to cover the dread of simply existing? When was the last time Akaashi had seen his boyfriend’s real smile? Did staring death in the face put one on Bokuto’s face?  
  
_If only he had said._

~  
  
Akaashi didn’t stay at home, and instead headed to school, empty space beside him. It felt that if he headed to school, to the gymnasium, Bokuto would be there. There at their location. But Bokuto didn’t greet him on the way with a grin that made his heart squeeze. He took in the surroundings, but it all seemed to be coloured using grayscale. Nothing around him had the lively, vibrant colours it did when he walked with Bokuto.  
  
When he reached the gymnasium, Akaashi wasn’t alone. But not in the way he wanted it to be. His teammates’ looks told him that he wasn’t going to see Bokuto again, and the news hadn’t spoken of another unlucky Bokuto Koutarou with the same unusual name.  
  
All of it told him of the uncomfortable truth. Konoha, who was bawling into Washio’s shoulder. Komi and Sarukui, droplets of their tears splattering the gymnasium floor they trained on for the past three years. Onaga, who was trying to comfort the sobbing managers while not being able to hold back his own emotions.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Akaashi.”  
  
Sarukui was the first one to run up to Akaashi and embrace him, the tightest hug he’d ever received from him. It wasn’t meant to happen that way. It was meant to happen when they’d won nationals together, on the orange court. Not when the captain had killed himself just before the summer holidays.  
  
Even as Sarukui’s tears and nose ran all over Akaashi’s shirt, the second year remained silent. It wasn’t sadness, it couldn’t be. It was just a hollow emptiness that broke his soul, leaving nothing there to feel with.  
  
“Why? God, why did he have to be taken from us? Why did he choose this?!” Konoha slammed his fist into the wall, and Washio was quick to drag him away from it. Konoha didn’t even retaliate. His rage-filled, unanswered questions turned into huge, choked-up sounds of grief.  
  
Akaashi didn’t cry. Couldn’t. How could he? It didn’t make sense. Bokuto was happy, he was supposed to be. He had scholarships for the best universities Tokyo had to offer for his volleyball career. He had a boyfriend to hold hands and share Eskimo kisses with. He couldn’t have taken his own life. He shouldn’t have. 

But the bouncing laugh and shimmering voice was definitely gone from the gymnasium, not to be heard anywhere. The beautiful pair of honey eyes didn’t plead him for a toss. There were no excited footsteps following him around the court.  
  
Everything was wrong. So, _so_ wrong.  
  
Akaashi didn’t go to class, or even step into the main building. An assembly took place in the gymnasium, where everyone sat with arms around knees. _A minute’s silence,_ the school principal said. But there was no need. Nobody dared speak, and the silence was only broken by the principal again.  
  
The silence wasn’t over for Akaashi. He couldn’t hear Bokuto call for a toss. He couldn’t hear his laugh, dripping happiness like a melting candle. He couldn’t hear the three words that Akaashi spilled tears of joy over.  
  
He didn’t want to hear anybody talk about Bokuto as if they knew him.  
  
_Amazing student. Star athlete. A kind soul, will be missed dearly._ Akaashi didn’t have any disagreements with the statements themselves, but rather the person delivering them. Why was it somebody who Bokuto barely spoke to?

Akaashi wanted to rip the microphone from his hands. He didn’t know how he looked playing volleyball. He didn’t know the way he smiled, the way he lived. But he didn’t even have the strength to move his eyes off the wooden floorboards. He stayed silent, enduring the speech that was painful to listen to.

Weak. Akaashi felt it, all the way through his bones. Weak people were the ones who ended their lives, he’d heard a news reporter say once. _Cowards,_ they said, tone laced with contempt. But Bokuto was strong, Akaashi would never deny that. Then what was stronger than him, so much stronger that it slammed him to the ground and kept pushing him lower and lower?  
  
Questions stayed unanswered. So many things were left unknown, and yet the man in front of Akaashi kept speaking as if he knew it all. He knew how to deal with it, he knew how to let the assembly go on. Akaashi didn’t care about what that man knew, not when he didn’t know far, far more.

But it wasn’t like Akaashi knew everything, either. If he knew, Bokuto would be still there. But he didn’t know. Nobody knew. Why Bokuto had killed himself, what kind of problems drove him to it. When he had passed the point of no return. What his last expression was.  
  
_If only he had said._

 ****  
  
Choking on his questions, Akaashi rested his head on his arms.  
  
~

Every word Akaashi heard was painfully predictable. He grew tired of it, hearing nothing but variations of expected phrases to utter when a student had killed themselves.  Whether they meant the words or not, it didn’t matter. They didn’t know, and Akaashi wasn’t sure if he wanted them to. Bokuto didn’t deserve to have his privacy invaded upon like that.

Akaashi walked out of the gymnasium with dread sitting in his chest. The school had been dismissed, and it was the one thing he was grateful for. He didn’t want to stay in a place that made him yearn for something he would never get back.

The journey home was lonesome. Bokuto wasn’t there with him, babbling about something and making idle chatter. Akaashi enjoyed every moment they spent strolling around, taking detours so they could stay with each other for a few minutes longer. Although Akaashi knew it already, he felt it in his chest that he didn’t appreciate Bokuto’s gestures enough.

He ended up taking the long way home, just so he could see the flowers that Bokuto always pointed out to him when they passed the park nearby. The red brick wall stretched along the path that Akaashi stepped onto, and beyond that there were summer flowers; sunflowers and marigolds in full bloom, petals swollen full of life.

Each flower shimmered in its own way, bound to catch someone’s eye. Some had missing petals and odd colours, but were nonetheless dazzling. Akaashi wanted to pick some, just like Bokuto did. He would bring them home and wail about them wilting a few days later. Akaashi never understood the purpose of yanking flowers and keeping them, until he saw the happiness in Bokuto’s eyes when he held a bunch of fresh flowers lovingly in his arms.

Akaashi once suggested drying the flowers if he wanted them to last. They never got around to it.

Chrysanthemums. That was what came to mind when Bokuto’s smile appeared in his heart. Sunflowers used to be it, but now he pictured the deep yellow chrysanthemums inside the hollowed-out bamboo stick in front of Bokuto’s grave. Grave flowers.

Akaashi couldn’t picture it. Bokuto was going to fade away inside him, until he would no longer think of the bubbly captain but a gravestone when his name was mentioned. Bokuto Koutarou was no longer part of the living world, the world he had shared with Akaashi so deeply. He had put a stop to his own growth, kissing his reality goodbye.

“Bokuto-san.”

Most of Akaashi’s acquaintances assumed that Bokuto was Akaashi’s best friend, who troubled him slightly on numerous occasions. But to Akaashi, Bokuto was so much more to him. He was the sky, the sun, the clouds that constantly changed colour. He was the sun, and Akaashi was his moon. Bokuto made him shine.

Without the sun, there was no soft glow of the moon.

“Koutarou.” Akaashi whispered, as if Bokuto was beside him, listening to his hushed voice. He was alone. The silence he got was enough proof of that.

_If only you hadn’t left._

_~_

Akaashi only reached home after noon, despite being dismissed even before the first class began. His stomach was hollowed out and sick as he stepped into his genkan, slipping his shoes off and casting them to the side with one foot. He stayed silent when he caught his mother throwing a concerned glance at him.

She was worried that he was in denial, and her concern was justified. Akaashi was in denial, indeed. Bokuto wasn’t dead, he wanted to believe the lies that were whispered in his head. What will prove to him that Bokuto won’t come back, he didn’t know. It had only been a few hours since that news headline, that damned headline that threw every cog and wheel into disarray.

He tried to utter an “I’m home,” at the very least, but all that came out was a groan, barely audible. He was dizzy. The floorboards spun in a way that was impossible for his eyes to keep up with. A nauseating sensation took over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to stand upright. His mother reached over to support him, but he shook his head lightly.

“Keiji, take your time.” Akaashi’s mother spoke gently, her words caressing Akaashi’s trembling frame. “It’s okay. I know you’re in a really bad place, and I don’t understand your pain the same way you do. You have your way of handling your feelings.”

The kindness overwhelmed him, and a sickly warm sensation emerged in his chest. He was home, safe from it all. But what he needed the most was safety in his mind. The shred of security meant nothing. It was getting worse.

A murmur escaped Akaashi’s lips. He felt the need to say something, anything. It could have been an expression of sorrow, or even pain. But he couldn’t speak, not when he was processing the cacophony of emotions running all over the place.

“Are you hungry? You don’t have to force yourself, but there’s food in the kitchen if you have an appetite.”

His stomach was hollow, but not in a way that reminded him of hunger. He was already filled, up to the brim with a thick swirling heaviness. There was the smell of cooked, steamy rice and fried vegetables penetrating the air. His mother’s cooking was sublime. His stomach growled, complaining of hunger. His body needed the food, but eating wasn’t a good idea.

“I think I need to go to my room,” Akaashi finally choked out. The air became heavier with every step, with the scent of lunch and dread weighing it down. Dragging himself up the stairs suddenly seemed impossible.

He wasn’t taking in breaths properly. Inhaling too much and exhaling too little left him gasping. The view below kept spinning around at full force. Akin to motion sickness, the queasy display never faltered.

_Properly, do it properly, dammit!_

Akaashi’s foot barely moved from the first step. The soft texture of carpet was what his senses focused on, but that too amplified until it was unbearable. He needed to do so many things at once. Things that came to him easily not even a day ago.

Breathe, stand straight, breathe deeply, properly. Take in air, so as not to choke. Simple, repetitive tasks weren’t coming to him. His stomach lurched from the dizziness that wracked his entire frame. Walking wasn’t working. He needed to sit down, no, lie on a flat surface. Before the lightheadedness knocked him onto his knees.

Where was he, now?

Sitting down, Akaashi leaned his head against the hard wall next to him. His body was scorching hot, the summer heat boiling him all over. The voice beside him was his mother’s. No words could be made out. He was underwater, drowning in his surroundings.

A rush of something watery filled his mouth. He could hardly make out what it was, until it dripped down his uniform and his palm was sticky. Staring down at his ruined clothes made Akaashi vomit again, without warning. Confusion outweighed his disgust, but only by a fraction of an amount. Discomfort spread through his veins.

“Keiji! Oh, gosh.” He could hear his mother fuss over him, dashing into the bathroom for a towel. Even as he begged his body to stop spiraling out of control, the vomiting refused to let up. He was empty, with nothing inside him. Yet his stomach kept trying to expel, expel, **expel.** He was already hollow, everything scooped out until he was a shell.

Akaashi’s mother came back with some water and towels, drying him off enough so he wouldn’t spread the damage. “Go lie down after taking a bath. It’s okay.” He was swathed in the towels and given a drink, which he very nearly spilled on himself. A bitter tartness resided on his tongue, lining his throat.

Running water. The warm liquid trickled into the bath and out of the shower head, onto Akaashi’s flushed, bare skin. The shower head rested in its place, fixed there with two holders. His hands trembled too much for him to hold it. He caught water in his mouth and let it dribble out, washing the acidic taste out of his mouth.

His chest was choked up in the humid atmosphere. He couldn’t cry it out, no tears would come. He only had the option to sit with his body covered in suds, scraping himself raw over and over again.

Akaashi sank up to his neck in the bath, for longer than he should have. Immersing himself in the water was a satisfying sensation, but not even that could comfort him. Surrounded by warmth, he was still cold at his core.

Thoughts flitted back and forth beyond his closed eyes. Memories of himself and Bokuto, visions of what could have been. Intimate moments they never got to share. A tightness in his chest that squeezed him with more force each second.

_Shut up-!_

The water wasn’t even lukewarm now. Akaashi stepped out hastily, his mind becoming too noisy for him to feel any security. As he toweled himself off, he noticed that his mother had left out clothes for him. He slipped into the garments, fanning himself. The summer heat had increased in intensity, perfect for sunflowers.

He headed to his room. The heat was enough to make him groan, but he couldn’t turn on the air conditioner. He collapsed into his bed, letting the blankets smother him until he could barely breathe.

Even after he lifted his head, his lungs still burned.

_Was he not good enough?_

_~_

Akaashi slithered under the covers, gripping his chest through the fabric of his t-shirt. Bokuto was beside him, he imagined. But he wasn’t the Bokuto that Akaashi knew. A shadow of who he used to be. Pent-up hurt and despair bursting inside him, like a sac filled to the brim with emotions.

Dripping down, drop by drop.

Raining. Thick, grey clouds wept, raindrops gliding down Akaashi’s window. The shower of rain hummed in his ears, leaving him restless. He loved listening to the pitter-patter of it, but at that moment, it reminded him of his state too much.

If only he could have shed even a single tear. It would roll down his cheek, just like the droplets on the glass of his window. More than a single tear, even. Racing down his cheeks, as if to compete with each other in reaching his chin first.

No, it didn’t work like that. Akaashi made that up in his head. It didn’t lift the weight on his shoulders. He clutched his arms tightly, curling up in a tight ball. If he made himself small and compressed enough, maybe he could have disappeared with his feelings.

He remained awake, despite everything he did to lose consciousness. No matter how much grief he experienced, he couldn’t control his biological clock. Nothing appealed to him. His phone screen hurt his eyes, and the constant ping of notifications gave him a headache. He turned it off, wishing he could do the same with himself.

By the time he lifted the covers off his dry face, the sky had a warm evening glow. Pale oranges and pinks littered it like a canvas, with flecks of purple in the clouds. The rain had stopped, but he missed the rainbow by choice. If the faint scent of petrichor and soft thrumming of rain couldn’t lull him to sleep, then nothing could.

His chest was taken over by the brooding feeling that had persisted all day. It kept him aware and alert of the pain, reminding him that the glow in his heart existed no more. Not even a flicker of light remained.

It was the longest night he had, but not the most painful.


	2. It hurts on the cloudy nights, but I'll be okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akaashi let out a laugh. He saved a recording of the news segment to his television. He wouldn’t have to look for proof anymore. He wouldn’t ever chase leads that would take him to a dead end again.
> 
> “Keiji, I’m so sorry-”
> 
> “Don’t.”
> 
> Akaashi was an open wound. The stitches had popped out, exposing the throbbing bundles of nerves for all to see. Bokuto was already beyond his reach. He was somewhere Akaashi would never discover him.
> 
> “The wake is tonight. Would you like to go?”
> 
> The television didn’t focus on the tragedy of a high school student committing suicide for long. A story about some political candidate Akaashi didn’t care for was more important to them, apparently.
> 
> “I’ll go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm updating this again... surprise.  
> i gotta go Japanese school in less than an hour i might edit gthis later  
> bye

Akaashi had passed out without recalling ever doing so. The empty world had progressed without Bokuto, who was the first person that came to his lagging mind. Bokuto had to be there somewhere, in a place where he was giggling, filled with rapture. Not getting his body assembled so that he looked somewhat presentable for his grieving friends.

The news article rang inside his head. **_Bokuto Koutarou, student, died at age 18._ **Akaashi checked the time on his phone, that he’d unknowingly slept on. Around that time yesterday was when everything went wrong. When everything fell into broken shards below his kitchen table.

The news article was on numerous websites. Some didn’t mention Bokuto’s name, but Akaashi knew straight away from the details. It was the same station, the same teen in his third year of high school. He scrolled and scrolled, as if it would take him to an alternate universe where Bokuto was grinning with the nationals cup in his arms.

A blue glow surrounded his face as he pressed his phone close to his face. He lay his head on the pillow, the news from yesterday echoing inside him until his chest felt swollen. The monotone voice vibrated in his heart, cruel and uncaring.

His mother’s footsteps came pat-pat-patting up the stairs, and he sank down deep into his covers as they advanced closer to his room. He was an open nerve; he didn’t want to be touched in such a state. Not even by his own mother.

But she didn’t come in. Instead, she knocked twice. “Keiji,” came her soft voice. “Do you want me to leave your breakfast here?”

“No.” Akaashi mumbled. He didn’t feel like eating. His stomach was already full from consuming the articles ravenously. But at the same time, he wanted to come downstairs. If he turned on the television, maybe he would get updates on the situation. Maybe Bokuto survived. Sure, not in good condition, but alive. If he were alive, that was all that mattered. He didn’t care if he had limbs missing, or if he couldn’t ever see or hear anymore. If he could see that damn smile one more time.

“I’ll eat downstairs.” Akaashi wriggled out of his bed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. He hadn’t blow-dried it, and it resembled a bird’s nest. A bird’s nest that Bokuto loved to run his fingers through and bury his nose into.

As Akaashi trudged down the stairs step by step, everything came back to him. His legs had given out when he’d tried to make his way up. He’d thrown up everything in his stomach until his throat burned and his lungs came out his mouth. His breath still hadn’t come back to him. His lungs were still lost.

He reached the end of the stairs, by some miracle. There was no trace of the mess he’d left yesterday. _See,_ he thought to himself. It was just a dream. A bad one. Excitement filled his veins. He was going to see Bokuto again. His Bokuto.

Anticipation slammed his gut, allowing him to push himself into the kitchen. If he turned on the television, he wouldn’t see the news piece that announced Bokuto’s name. He’d see a heartwarming story about a baby panda at the local zoo. Or perhaps, a review of the latest musical being performed in the theatre. The one based off a fantasy novel.

“Keiji. Do you want to eat?”

Akaashi hesitated. Yes- no- yes. He reached for the onigiri that sat on the plate, the exact same one from yesterday. He bit into it. It was filled with pickled plum, the same flavour that burst into his mouth when he heard the news. His mother gazed at him with a mixture of concern and love in her eyes. The same eyes from yesterday, when they’d exchanged that hug, everything was the same-

His hand reached for the TV remote before his mother realised what he was doing. He turned on the television, and what he immediately saw was the weather report. Rainy, with hints of sun in the afternoon. High humidity levels. Percentage of rain in his area, 76%.

That wasn’t what he was looking for. He flicked to another channel, which showed a reporter visiting a tourist site in Hyogo. Flick. A close-up of a steak dinner, steaming hot and saturated with demi-glace sauce. Flick. Flick. Flick.

**_Grieving family does not know the cause of their son’s suicide. Bokuto Koutarou, a student who was a spiker at nationals level, has taken his own life by jumping to his death at a train station._ **

Akaashi let out a laugh. He saved a recording of the news segment to his television. He wouldn’t have to look for proof anymore. He wouldn’t ever chase leads that would take him to a dead end again.

“Keiji, I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t.”

Akaashi was an open wound. The stitches had popped out, exposing the throbbing bundles of nerves for all to see. Bokuto was already beyond his reach. He was somewhere Akaashi would never discover him.

“The wake is tonight. Would you like to go?”

The television didn’t focus on the tragedy of a high school student committing suicide for long. A story about some political candidate Akaashi didn’t care for was more important to them, apparently.

“I’ll go.”

Whether it was because he wanted to be as close to Bokuto as possible, or because he had to see it to really believe, he didn’t know. He was only certain that he was going to see grieving teammates and family members, and it would click into place.

He couldn’t eat another bite of his food. “I’m gonna…” he murmured, the rest of his sentence lost in his throat. He headed up the stairs, energy nonexistent as thoughts of Bokuto’s body at the wake swirl around in his mind.

Akaashi resumed scrolling around on the internet, until he’d read every single article and watched every single news clip on various websites. He’d seen the tweets complaining that the train home was late, because there was a body crushed underneath it. He’d seen the comments ranting about how selfish the teen was.

Bullshit. The mess that took their precious time to clean had a family and boyfriend that cared about him. The only grievances they had was arriving home an hour late. They didn’t have the gaping wound inside their chest, throbbing heart splattered onto the ground. They didn’t get to complain.

Akaashi swore under his breath, curling into himself under the quilts. Grief throttled him, grabbing him by the throat until he couldn’t breathe. Bokuto was there with him only two days ago. They’d kissed, played Mario Kart and exchanged horrible puns. He would have paid more attention to all of Bokuto’s little antics if he had known their forever would end so abruptly.

He fell into a state of deep sleep eventually. He had barely slept through the night yesterday. It was almost like Bokuto was begging him to remember, to stay conscious before he would fall asleep and forget. Of course, Akaashi would never forget. He couldn’t ever. He wondered if Bokuto knew that.

When he was awake again, the soft evening glow surrounded him like a shower. The time read 5:09pm, about an hour before he was expected at the wake. There were black funeral clothes hung up in his room, thanks to his mother. The last time he’d worn them was when his great uncle died. He came to the realisation that they were rather tight, but clothes were the last thing on his mind right now. He was going to see Bokuto, all embalmed and dressed up to make him look appropriate for viewing.

The thought of Bokuto having his body stitched together made Akaashi’s stomach turn. He sat in the car with his too-tight suit gripping at his midsection, tapping the window with his fingers. His ears were filled with white noise, clogged with the same ringing that repeated inside his head. He was getting closer to Bokuto with each passing second. Bokuto would be buried, with nobody to show all of himself to. It was the last look Akaashi could give to him.

Akaashi let out a hiccup, his body shaking visibly. “Should I pull over?” His mother asked, most likely worried he’ll throw up in the car or something. He mumbled something along the lines of _I’m fine, keep driving_ but in such a way that he slurred like a drunk. His mother seemingly got the message, continuing to make her way to the wake.

There were many family members that Akaashi didn’t recognise. They were all crying, eyes red as they dabbed their tears with handkerchiefs. Their son, He immediately located Sarukui and stood beside him, leaning onto the wall behind the both of them. He couldn’t be bothered to start up a conversation, or take part in one, until Sarukui opened his mouth.

“Konoha’s not coming.”

Akaashi wasn’t been given much to work with. “I see. Who _is_ coming, then?”

“Komi, Onaga and Shirofuku. And-”

Akaashi spotted a familiar bedhead in the crowd of mourning relatives and teammates. His heart dropped at the sight of the Nekoma captain. Even from where he was, he could see that Kuroo was in dreadful condition. He had to know how he was doing, although there was only one answer. Bad.

As Akaashi navigated through the crowd, Kuroo’s heavy eyes turned to face him. His skin was ghostly pale and it was glaringly obvious that he hadn’t been eating or sleeping. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, giving away the amount of crying he had done.

In a disturbing sense, Akaashi was jealous. Kuroo could cry. He could at least release his emotions in a way that confirmed his sadness. But the envy diminished into nothingness in a split second, for Akaashi knew that Kuroo could also have been emptying his stomach over a sink and denying Bokuto’s death.

“Kuroo-san.”

Akaashi mumbled the Nekoma captain’s name. He could hardly call him Kuroo. He was nothing but a shadow of the snarky, blithe comedian he used to be. After his greeting was acknowledged by only a slow blink, Akaashi decided not to push for a reply.

He wasn’t even sure if Kuroo heard him, but it didn’t matter. They merely stayed by each other’s side, for what felt longer than the actual time passed. It was reassuring, in a way. No awkward apologies that changed nothing. No talking about how amazing and inspiring their dead friend was. Only shared loss and the burn of incense that filled the room.

Kuroo opened his mouth after an eternity of leaning against the wall and five position changes for Akaashi’s comfort. “Should we go see him?” He suggested, somewhat reluctantly. Akaashi could understand why. They both knew know messy and undignified train accident deaths were.

Bokuto didn’t deserve such a death. A death that stripped him of all his glow and sunshine, leaving him poorly assembled after the train tore through his body. Somebody had seen him before he was put together again, in his untouchable state. Things inside the human body that should have never seen the light of day. Bodily fluids that did nothing to help his appearance.

There was a shared fear among the both of the them. Someone so pure and bright had been assembled part by part into what he looked like before his death. And he had chosen to die like that, knowing it would be far from pretty.

But Akaashi couldn’t leave the wake without glancing at his boyfriend. No matter what, Bokuto was the one he loved. It didn’t matter whether he had been crushed beyond recognition or had parts of him that were never recovered. Akaashi was convinced that he would always have the aura of immaculate beauty.

“Yeah. We should go see him.”

Bokuto wasn’t a body. He wasn’t a corpse. He was their friend. He was a volleyball player. He was someone Akaashi had fallen in love with, and Akaashi wasn’t going to talk about him any differently. He was more than an unresponsive piece of meat inside a casket.

When Akaashi peered into the casket, what jumped into his eyes were flowers. Violet, cream, pink, yellow, green. He could count so many different colours, like the skies that Bokuto pointed out to him on summer evenings. They were splashes of paint on a canvas, each one telling a story about Bokuto’s life.

He couldn’t see any stitches or missing limbs. Everything was covered with flowers. Akaashi’s hands itched to throw the flowers out of the casket. He wanted to see the real Bokuto, not a version of him all prettied up for the eyes of his relatives. The real, ugly version of him. Covered in blood and bruises and gore. The Bokuto that nobody saw until it was too late.

“Akaashi,” Kuroo snapped him out of his trance, and pointed to Bokuto’s scar on his forehead. It was just under his hairline, a thin white line formed by the enclosure of a sand pit he fell onto as a five-year-old. It was partially hidden by tufts of unwaxed hair, that had lost its liveliness. Bokuto would only let Akaashi see his hair down like that, claiming that it was his ultimate weakness.

“He’s not gonna show off to his kids about how daddy got his scars, huh.”  


Kuroo began to tear up at his own comment, and Akaashi resisted the urge to elbow him hard. The only thing stopping him was how accurate Kuroo was being. Children were magnetically drawn to Bokuto, and he liked it that way. Akaashi had even thought about starting a family with him in the future. A lively household with chatter and giggles ringing through the air.

“He looks so peaceful, Akaashi.” Kuroo hiccuped, tears burning the corners of his eyes again. Bokuto lay in his casket, still as ever. Akaashi felt his throat tighten, his vision swimming. Kuroo was sobbing his eyes out again, and Bokuto wasn’t even comforting him. All it would take for Kuroo to stop was for Bokuto to jump upright and yell his catchphrase again.

In the corner of his eye, Akaashi noticed his parents talking to Bokuto’s parents. He didn’t know what they were mumbling under their breaths, and he couldn’t bring himself to care about it a great deal. He had never met Bokuto’s parents properly, and he wasn’t even sure if they knew he was dating their son. Hopefully, they weren’t part of the reason why Bokuto killed himself.

A whimper beside him dragged his attention back to Kuroo. He was crumpled on the floor, choking on his own sobs. His arms gripped his midsection tightly, as if he’d just been kicked in the gut. He looked like he was gagging. Tears were overflowing from his bloodshot, sleepless eyes.

“Kuroo-san.”

Akaashi bent down to Kuroo’s level, placing a hand on his back and rubbing soothing circles. He didn’t know why he could bring himself to comfort someone in his current state. But there was something so pathetic about the way Kuroo cried, he couldn’t help it. Kuroo wasn’t the captain of a powerhouse anymore. He looked much smaller, much more defeated.

“Why won’t he get up, dammit? Why did he have to go? Why did it have to be him?!”

Akaashi couldn’t give Kuroo an answer, not when those questions still lingered in his chest over and over. The open wound was still there, blood running down and soaking his t-shirt. Akaashi was drenched in his own blood, from the gaping hole in his chest that Bokuto left.

The car ride home, Akaashi was silent. He refused his mother’s offer to pick up some food. It would all taste like ashes anyway, burnt and painful on his tongue. Staring at the clouds, Akaashi let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It didn’t pour buckets of rain like yesterday. It was just clouds covering the entire sky, stretching out into oblivion.

Akaashi slept with his phone pressed against his cheek. Bokuto was inside the internet, inside all those articles that captured his death monotonously. If Akaashi kept close to him all the time loyally, maybe he would decide to come back to his world.

Bokuto belonged. He belonged with Akaashi. He shouldn’t have taken himself away from their world. He left Akaashi in a world without him. He knew what he was doing.

Akaashi woke up in his clothes he’d worn to the wake. He couldn’t keep them on any longer, and took them off. It was a reminder of Kuroo’s bloodshot eyes, Bokuto’s lifeless body covered with flowers. It told him a story he couldn’t read.

**_“Bokuto Koutarou was a student who took his own life on the seventh of July, by jumping in front of a train. It appears that his death was instantaneous-”_ **

Akaashi let the words drown out his thoughts. Whatever linked Bokuto to his world, Akaashi would consume greedily like a feast laid out for him. Parts of Bokuto lay upon the dining table, a single teardrop staining the tablecloths.

He glanced at his phone. It wasn’t a school day, and he could sleep all day until the funeral if he wished. He would have a chance of meeting Bokuto if he slept. When he woke up, he would see him again in his casket.

His mother didn’t knock on his door. If she did, Akaashi didn’t hear her. Not that it mattered, since he wasn’t even hungry. The greed inside the pit of his stomach would never be satisfied with the riches of meals.

The wake. Konoha had missed it. The rest of the volleyball club had come. Akaashi could understand why he didn’t want to attend the wake. If it were anyone other than Bokuto, Akaashi wouldn’t have been able to see their corpses. Sarukui, Komi, Washio, Shirofuku. Akaashi couldn’t imagine them laying in a casket, lifeless except for the flowers thrown onto them.

Bokuto was different. Akaashi was a magnet, drawn to him. When he didn’t connect with him, his heart tugged and bled like a dog on a leash. It begged to shorten the distance between them.

Akaashi’s chest kept spilling blood. The wound kept caving in deeper, until it created a hole that he could see through. He bit his lip into pieces, as if that could distract him from the hurt. Blood oozed from the skin, spreading into the cracks of his dry, chapped lips.

He wasn’t going to sleep. He was going to relive the memories of Bokuto over and over again. He was alive inside him. He wouldn’t let a single thing about him die. He was Akaashi’s boyfriend.

The taste of his chaste kisses.

The sparkle of his cheeks.

The scent of his oversized sweaters.

Akaashi savoured each memory, sweet and bitter. Bokuto was with him as he retraced the footsteps of their relationship. The last day they’d spent together, Akaashi had walked to school with him. He’d set for him, and bought ice cream to share. He had been eating chocolate flavoured ice cream while Bokuto was planning his suicide.

The words they’d said to each other.

_I love you, Akaashi._

_You have ice cream on your chin, Bokuto-san._

_Your tosses were great as usual today, Akaashi!_

_Please try your best tomorrow too, Bokuto-san. I love you._

Akaashi opened up his phone, closing the tabs of news articles and search results on Twitter. He opened up his gallery and tapped on the album titled “Bokuto-san”, scrolling all the way to the oldest photo.

It was a somewhat blurry selfie that Bokuto had taken, after he’d robbed Akaashi’s phone off him on his second day of first year. His toothy grin spread out across the entire phone screen, emitting a glow that blinded Akaashi. Only this time, it was because of the blue light.

A photo of Akaashi eating yakisoba bread. Swipe. A group photo after Bokuto’s seventeenth birthday. Swipe. Their matching keychains they had bought for Akaashi’s birthday, the day Bokuto had confessed to him through tears. Swipe. A close-up of Christmas KFC. Swipe. The amount of photos increased exponentially once they started dating. Bokuto would often demand to take a picture of every special moment, filing it under an album named something cheesy.

The last picture was taken a few days ago. It was Bokuto petting a stray cat and attempting to feed it his lunch, only to have it turn up its nose at him. Bokuto had thrown himself into emo mode for the entire morning, only recovering when Akaashi gave him food.

Akaashi’s album couldn’t end there. There had to be more to their relationship. It hadn’t ended. Bokuto had never broken up with him.

“Keiji, we should get going. The reception starts in half an hour.”

Akaashi turned to his mother. She was wearing a black dress and a cardigan to match, and her expression made it seem like they were already at the funeral.

He picked up his funeral clothes, slightly creased. He didn’t care what he looked like. Everyone should be caring about Bokuto, not him. It wasn’t his funeral, but it might has well have been.

“Did you talk to Koutarou’s parents?”

His mother spoke suddenly, in the car.

Akaashi swallowed. He’d seen them at the wake, crying the entire time. They didn’t seem to understand either. Nobody did. The only one who could tell them was dead.

“No,” his voice was shaky. “No, I didn’t.”

“Maybe you should.”

Bokuto’s parents were traditional and authoritarian. Bokuto had insisted they loved him, but he spent many nights at Akaashi’s when the pressure to do well at school was too much. Akaashi wanted a reason, any reason that would link his suicide to something that was still there.

He couldn’t blame Bokuto’s parents, not after he had seen them cry that way. They weren’t tears to put up a front. Akaashi had never heard anyone cry with such terror and pain, ripping their chests apart. Nobody could fake that if they tried.

“It wouldn’t help.” Akaashi said, after a silence that lasted a beat too long. “I doubt they knew I was dating Bokuto.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. He _is_ dating him. He won’t even consider anybody else. His loyalty rested with Bokuto, with his ashes.

Akaashi gripped his funeral gift envelope harder.

“Did you bring anything for him?”

“No.”

Akaashi didn’t have any farewell gifts with him. It was no farewell, and Bokuto was far from faring well. He had been hurting. He had been hurting, and nobody had even paid attention to it.

Konoha was at the funeral.

His face was contorted with disbelief and anger, and his palms had one too many indents from his bitten-down nails. He barely acknowledged Akaashi’s presence, and his envelope was even more creased than Akaashi’s.

“Konoha.”

Washio approached him, Sarukui following a few steps away. Akaashi noticed Shirofuku, Suzumeda and Komi watching further away, too. Akaashi felt something other than emptiness, for the first time in days. He was terrified.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me!”

Konoha slapped Washio’s hand away when he reached over to his shoulder. Shirofuku let out an audible gasp, but fell silent under Konoha’s glare.

Konoha’s way of dealing with grief was explosive. He was angry. At Bokuto, who left without even saying goodbye. At his friends, who never picked up on the warning signs. At himself, for being a fucking mess.

“I’m not going to apologize, Washio. It fucking hurts and you know it.” He spat bitterly, violently wiping away at his tears. “He’s gone. He’s fucking gone and none of us even knew! None of us!”

Konoha whipped around, glaring lasers into Akaashi’s eyeballs. “Nobody knew what he was going through.”

“It’s not Akaashi’s fault. He’s hurt too. He’s hurt the most.” Sarukui stepped in front of Akaashi, extending his arm protectively. His brows knitted together tightly, his smile completely wiped off his face.

Akaashi stayed silent. He couldn’t stay where he was any longer.

He left without another word. He vaguely heard one of the managers mutter his name, but he didn’t look back.

Staring at the ground, he saw unfamiliar black shoes before bumping his head into someone’s shoulder. Upon lifting his gaze, he immediately recognized Kuroo. The broken Kuroo that hadn’t eaten, showered or slept since Akaashi last met him.

“Akaashi,” Kuroo’s voice was raspier, as if he’d been throttled. “I was asked to write a eulogy for him.”

Akaashi felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“I… see. And are you going to go through with it?”

An ugly part of him begged Kuroo to say no. Akaashi knew Bokuto the best. That was what he wanted to believe. From the looks of it, Kuroo didn’t know why Bokuto did it. He didn’t know him any better.

“Yeah. I have to go.”

Kuroo staggered away, becoming a speck in the crowd. Akaashi only noticed then that Kenma was with him. He didn’t seem as upset, but had thick rings underneath his eyes. Most likely from helping Kuroo through the nights.

“Akaashi. Do you want to sit over there?”

Kenma pointed at a half-empty row of seats. There weren’t any students or relatives Akaashi recognised around them, and he figured it was better that way.

Akaashi agreed wordlessly, taking the seat closest to the aisle. Kenma slumped down beside him. They sat in silence, until Kenma opened his mouth again.

“You really loved him.”

Akaashi bit the skin around his nails. “I still do.”

“Yeah,” Kenma stared straight ahead, with eyes that had seen the full effect of grief on his best friend. “I know you do, Akaashi.”

Kuroo attempted his speech, and Akaashi had to emphasise that he _attempted._ It was much better than the one his school principal had delivered, but Kuroo could barely form coherent sentences when he was handed the microphone.

Instead, he wept into the microphone. His tears dripped onto his clenched hand, and Kuroo’s wounds opened again. His entire frame shook, as if he were suffering from a terminal illness.

Kuroo sobbed and sobbed, garbled words spilling out his mouth. He could only repeat that Bokuto was an amazing guy, and that he didn’t deserve any of what happened. He was ushered off the stage when he could no longer speak.

Kenma rose from his seat to head over, holding Kuroo’s hand and murmuring soft nothings into his ear. A knife dug into Akaashi’s chest, deep enough for his mouth to twitch.

If he’d found Bokuto when he was having a breakdown, he would have comforted him. He would have known something was seriously wrong. Akaashi knew the difference between Bokuto’s emo modes and genuine pain.

But he’d failed. It cost Bokuto his life.

Now, instead of embracing Bokuto and assuring him that he was right there, Akaashi was watching the nails being hammered into his coffin.

Kuroo hadn’t stopped sobbing. Akaashi figured that the tears would dry up immediately, but Kuroo seemed to have an infinite supply. He could cry and cry until his skin shrivelled and lungs dried, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Akaashi saw Bokuto again, just before the cremation. He was still covered in fresh flowers, blossoming on his soulless body. It wasn’t Bokuto Koutarou inside the coffin. He’d left his shell long ago, departing to somewhere Akaashi couldn’t stretch his arms out enough to hold him.

“Please, say your final farewells to him.”

Akaashi wanted to hold Bokuto’s hand. He wanted to tell him that it was okay, it would be dark and scary but that was temporary too. He would feel much more lighter soon. Kuroo, Konoha and his other teammates crowded around Bokuto, tearfully begging him not to go.

“Please, don’t leave me, Bokuto-san.”

He couldn’t cry.

It took an hour for Bokuto to be cremated. Akaashi couldn’t believe they had left him in a place so dark and lonely for so long. Bokuto hated being alone. He needed someone with him, and Akaashi would have gladly been there for him.

Bokuto’s bones were a creamy white, smooth and statue-like. Each one told a  story that Akaashi never heard. He wanted to keep a piece. It was all that he had left of his boyfriend. If his relationship had been accepted by society, maybe he would have been allowed to.

“I can’t believe he did this.”

Konoha dug his foot into the ground, slamming his fist into the wall. His knuckles bled, smearing the concrete with crimson. The colour of rage.

“He chose the selfish way. We all loved him. Akaashi loved him. We would have fucking helped. If he’d _just said something._ ”

His teammates floated around him awkwardly, like jellyfish.

Akaashi remembered the topics that Bokuto chattered about before his death.

How clear the air was during the night. How the stars smiled at him and kissed his cheekbones. How the clouds lingered in the sky.

“He could have come to any one of us, and he didn’t. Why did he want to die so fucking bad? What the fuck was wrong with him?”

Kuroo trembled beside Akaashi. “You don’t know anything about him. Shut up! Just shut up!”

“Neither did you! And now he’s dead!”

“I said, shut up!” Kuroo grabbed Konoha by the shoulders in the middle of his sentence, dragging him up to his face.

“You shut up!” Konoha retorted, kicking blindly against Kuroo’s hold.

Kuroo slammed his head into Konoha’s nose, in a moment of blind rage. They pushed and shoved, screaming out insults they didn’t think through. They bit their tongues to pieces, shooting arrows of blood at each other.

“Hey, stop it! Both of you!” Sarukui leapt into action, yanking Konoha away from Kuroo. Konoha reeled forward with the force, smacking foreheads with Kuroo.

Yaku grabbed hold of Kuroo with surprising strength, hitting him over the head with a closed fist. “Idiot! Do you think Bokuto would have wanted this?! His friends fighting?”

“Bokuto’s dead! Don’t you try to speak for him!”

Kuroo shifted his rage to Yaku, throwing Konoha aside violently. Yaku’s smaller stature didn’t stop him from subduing Kuroo. He held Kuroo’s arms firmly as he thrashed about, until his wails of pain died down into gut-wrenching sobs.

Akaashi watched his two friends crumble on the asphalt, their hardened exterior shattered. He didn’t feel like a part of it. He didn’t feel like a part of anything without Bokuto. He was ashes.

Akaashi didn’t notice that everyone was making their own separate ways home, until Kenma tapped his shoulder.

“Sorry about what happened. Take care going home, Akaashi.”

Akaashi didn’t know what Kenma meant. There wasn’t anything to take care of. Did he think Akaashi was going to kill himself, because Bokuto had died?

He would have asked, but he was exhausted. Bokuto, now ashes and bones, clung to his mind. He left without a word, and Kenma didn’t make an attempt to communicate with him any more. It was relieving, in a way. Kenma wasn’t treating him like he was a porcelain plate.

The night sky glinted, like someone had poured drops of milk across the entire area. The air was cold, freezing his lungs. A low hum of something vaguely machine-like echoed, bouncing off the satellite dishes and concrete walls.

It was just like the sky Bokuto loved to talk about. It was all sky, stretching out for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments pls


	3. So don't you dare deny it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was burning.
> 
> Akaashi was engulfed in a ball of fire, cooking him alive until his brain was melted and his limbs hung limp. His hands grasped at nothing, fingers twitching helplessly. His lungs inhaled thick smoke, corrupting his organs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **HI, THIS IS IMPORTANT, READ THIS FUCKING THING!!**
> 
>  
> 
> Akaashi has unhealthy eating habits in this, and I don't just mean "scarfing down junk food". I mean stuff like binge eating and vomiting. It could be triggering to those who had/have EDs.
> 
>  
> 
> **IF DISORDERED EATING/VOMITING TRIGGERS YOU:**
> 
>  
> 
> I will put three asterisks (***) in between the paragraphs that go into detail with it. There are two scenes, each marked with asterisks at the start and at the end. One is a short, not-so-heavy scene. The latter, heavier scene has more detail and potentially triggering content. Please use your search within page option on your device, and search the asterisks up. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE STAY SAFE!!! 
> 
> This fic deals with how grief affects people. It WILL most likely have self-harm in it. But when it comes down to that, I'll decide how graphic it is and tell you all in advance.

He was burning. 

Akaashi was engulfed in a ball of fire, cooking him alive until his brain was melted and his limbs hung limp. His hands grasped at nothing, fingers twitching helplessly. His lungs inhaled thick smoke, corrupting his organs. 

His exhales were painfully warm, blood rushing to the roof of his mouth. As he breathed heavily under the covers, too hot and cold at the same time, his mother walked into his room. 

“Keiji, are you all right?” 

He registered something cold on his forehead. It lessened the burn of the fever on his skin, and the water droplets mixed with sweat began to run down the side of his face. He felt wet and gross, but the coolness of the compress was heavenly.

A groan escaped his lips as a response. He couldn’t speak. His throat was dry and scraped, and his mother’s figure was blurry in his clouded vision. 

Akaashi’s mother left the room, once she placed another bottle of water beside his bed. She’d been doing the exact same thing for the third day in a row; changing the wet cloth on his head, keeping him hydrated, making sure his fever wasn’t climbing. 

He hadn’t eaten in days, aside from the little rice he’d managed to get into his system. He spent his days slipping in and out of a coma-like state, hoping that it would somehow give him a glimpse at Bokuto, alive and chatty again. Akaashi squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to be in a world where Bokuto wasn’t there. He wanted to slip into his dreams, where he’d always have a bigger chance of seeing Bokuto. 

He passed out on his bed, breaths coming in laboured pants. His cheeks were flushed in a worrying manner, radiating heat into his pillow. He was in yet another dreamless sleep, distancing himself from reality yet again. 

Akaashi woke up with a dull pain in his lower stomach. His head felt like it had been boiled in scalding water, but the worst had passed. He stepped out of bed slowly, steadying himself with the walls. 

He was hungry. His stomach emitted a low growl, begging for food. He hadn’t bothered to count the days he’d barely managed to get a bite into his system. But now, he was forced to get up, by the hunger pains that attacked his midsection. 

He slithered down the stairs, not daring to stand up in his woozy state. His joints ached with every movement, dull pains cutting into his limbs. Hunger was the only reason he was breaking his back going down the stairs. 

There was food for two people in the kitchen. Akaashi realised his mother intended to have him eat, whenever his stomach would give in to his instincts. 

There was nanohana with mustard dressing in a bowl covered with cling film. He took off the wrap with trembling fingers. There were chopsticks sitting on the table, but Akaashi paid no attention to it. 

He reached for the food with his fingers, swallowing down each bite in quick succession. It was supposed to taste amazing. The scent of mustard that went through his nose, the freshness of the nanohana. It all tasted like cold ash. 

Akaashi dragged himself back up the stairs, once his stomach was filled. His hands were sticky and dripping with mustard, and he wiped them on the side of his t-shirt. He didn’t care about stains anymore. Bokuto never did. 

He couldn’t sleep after eating. He could feel how full he was, despite eating barely enough for a single meal. At the same time, he was still hungry. Nothing was enough to satisfy the empty shell of his heart. 

_ Akaashi! Akaashi, let’s go buy ramen! I’m hungry!  _

If only Akaashi could hear his voice, one more time. One more  _ Hey hey hey _ .

A heaviness sat darkly in his chest, which he would have given anything to get rid of. 

*******

Akaashi woke up again, with his face pressed against the sheets. He’d fallen asleep again, on his bed, without ever recollecting it. What had woken up was the shift in his gut, indicating that something was seriously wrong. 

It didn’t take long before Akaashi realised what was wrong. A wave of nausea snaked up his stomach and up to the back of his throat. He didn’t have much time to process it, and he knew he needed to bolt into a bathroom fast. 

He pressed his palm close to his mouth, making his way to the bathroom nearest to his room. He gagged into the toilet, one arm wrapped tightly around his stomach. His favourite meal tasted horrible coming back up, and it was clear he hadn’t eaten anything else. His throat burned with such stinging pain that it brought tears to his eyes. 

Akaashi’s mouth was filled with a disgusting texture. His body was rejecting everything that wasn’t Bokuto. The bitterness on his tongue was not Bokuto. It would never compare to the sweetness inside his eyes. 

*******

The next morning, his fever was gone. His mother had insisted he stay in bed, but he refused to remain in the continuous state of drifting in and out of his dreams. It did nothing to alleviate the heaviness, and that got tiring fast. 

And so, Akaashi headed to school. It was strange and worrying how Bokuto didn’t join him on his journey, as always. Perhaps he was sick, and Akaashi could pay him a visit with chrysanthemums and throat lozenges. 

“Akaashi, are you all right? I know you were close to Bokuto.” 

Akaashi’s eyes locked onto his homeroom teacher. He could feel the stares pricking against his back, becoming one with his blazer. What was his teacher saying? Of course he was close to Bokuto. He would kiss him on the way home and pinch his cheeks. 

“I’m fine.” He swallowed. “When should I hand in my report?” 

The teacher’s eyes widened, and Akaashi stared at him almost quizzically. “Don’t worry about it,” was all he said. The unfinished paragraphs repeated itself in Akaashi’s head, as he planned out the conclusion of the report he needed to hand in. 

Akaashi could feel the eyes on him as he pulled out a book. He didn’t need to buy lunch, not after he’d spent half an hour coughing out the disgusting green texture from his throat and between his teeth. 

The day went by, and his stomach groaned with anticipation. He wasn’t intending to give it anything, for fear of throwing up in the middle of class. But it was time to go home now, and he decided to buy himself a bottle of green tea. 

“Hey, Akaashi.” Sarukui popped out from behind the vending machine. “Coach wants us all in the gymnasium.” 

Akaashi nodded, uncapping the bottle and sipping the pleasantly bitter drink. “Of course. I’ll be there right away.” 

It was a Thursday. Of course he would come to the gymnasium for practice. Bokuto would whine if he found out he was being deprived of tosses. He headed down to the gymnasium, but Sarukui dragged him inside before he could even change into his uniform. 

“It’s very sudden and horrible news that Bokuto took his own life.” The coach sat them all down on the floor, and Akaashi listened to him with one ear and let the words come out the other. “I want you to know that you can take as much time off as you want to grieve. It’s not easy, but if you ever need me, I’ll be there for all of you.” 

Akaashi noticed the coach’s eyes fill with tears, and realised that he was saying all the things Bokuto needed to hear. The things that could have stopped Bokuto from stepping over the white lines on the platform. 

Konoha and Komi were sobbing audibly beside him. There was no anger left in Konoha, for it had been replaced with crushing sadness. He let out high-pitched cries of agony, as Washio rubbed his back to console him. This time, Konoha didn’t push him away. 

Akaashi bit his nail with an audible noise. Bokuto was running late. Why wasn’t he there? The coach was delivering such important news, and yet Bokuto didn’t even show up. Akaashi moved onto his next finger. 

“Bokuto was an amazing player and captain, and nothing will change that.” 

_He still is._ Akaashi’s teeth grinded together, and he tastes iron. Odd, he mused, and glanced down at his finger. He’d bitten down too far. His fingertips bled, staining his t-shirt. 

Had Bokuto bled like him, too? Was his death painful, or instant? 

Akaashi tasted the blood in his mouth as he walked home, past the rows and rows of hydrangeas and candytuft. They drooped from the weight of the dew on their leaves, and Akaashi realised that it had been raining. 

“Keiji, I made you some food. Are you going to have any?” 

There was a feast laid out on the table, and Akaashi would have marvelled at the variety and dazzling appearance of the food if he didn’t feel so cold and numb. He did marvel, but he was less keen about the prospect of eating. 

Still, he wasn’t going to let the food go to waste, not after he caught sight of the soy sauce stains on the tablecloth and the pots in the sink. 

He picked up the chopsticks, and prodded at the simmered vegetables in a small bowl. The dish contained potatoes, lotus roots, carrots, konjac and young bamboo shoots. The ingredients swam in the soy sauce base, and with every bite, he could taste the underlying flavours of miso. 

Akaashi’s fingers stung slightly as he continued to eat. His mouth felt starchy from chewing on the potatoes, and the vegetables sat heavily in his stomach. He finished the dish out of guilt, more than anything else. 

“Thanks for the meal. I’m fine now.” 

Akaashi’s mother’s eyes widened, but she nodded and took his empty plate of what used to be simmered vegetables. “Are you full already?” 

Akaashi gave a noise of affirmation. “I’ll just go sleep now.” 

He knew it was a horrible excuse. He’d been doing little else for the past week, drifting in and out of worlds created by his mind, that were ripped from him as soon his eyes snapped open. 

Akaashi couldn’t keep his eyes closed. In his darkened room, he was aware of just how empty he was. It was pathetic, after he’d refused the food his mother cooked for him. Although she didn’t show it, she must have been disappointed. He was sure there was a lot of work put into the food. 

He’d most likely disappointed Bokuto too, in a way he didn’t even think of. There would be no way of knowing, but he had his set of ideas. He was too uptight for his own good. He called Bokuto “Bokuto-san” more often than “Koutarou”. He sucked at displaying affection, and left Bokuto in charge of initiating all of that. 

Bokuto could have been holding in so much, and yet he was forced to keep up his act of carefully crafted happiness. He was pressured into never showing weakness, up until his last days. 

Logically, he knew that no amount of food would ever plug up the hole in his chest. All emotion had already leaked out, and all roots of it sitting inside him had been burned to nothing. But it would fill him with something. 

He crept downstairs. The digital clock on the oven read 3:28, a time nobody ate in his household. He was about to change that. The food was sitting on the table, all untouched. It was all for him, so he was meant to eat it, wasn’t he? 

Miso soup seemed good to start with. 

*******

Akaashi barely chewed on the tofu or the seaweed, gulping down the mouthfuls as if it were a drink on a hot day. He grabbed his chopsticks, for he wasn’t going to make it a repeat of last time, and moved onto a plate of ginger-fried pork. 

The different tastes wrote over each other on his tongue. He needed something to make it neutral again. There were three- no, five medium-sized rice balls beside him. He didn’t think twice. 

Inside the rice balls, there were sour plum pickles. He didn’t hesitate in eating one in three bites, stopping only to spit out the plum seeds. Without even looking inside the dish, he grabbed a portion of food with the chopsticks. 

It was thinly sliced carrot and dried squid, with grated white radish on top. The light, slightly sweet flavour of the sesame dressing soaked into his tongue with every bite, but Akaashi’s mouth remained in a tight frown. It wasn’t enough. 

He dug through the fridge, once every bowl and plate on the table was cleared. There were tomatoes, summer fruits, yoghurt drinks and so much more. He picked up the food nearest to hand, throwing off the packaging blindly and shoving a bite into his mouth. 

Akaashi registered a sweet, squishy texture as he took another bite out of the fleshy roundness in his palm. It was a tomato, juicy and ripe. He registered the soft sourness of it spreading on his tongue, finished one and reached for another. 

More. He needed more. 

Before he knew it, Akaashi was standing with the fridge light illuminating his face, wrappers and tupperware containers discarded haphazardly around him. He knew what sort of face his mother would pull if she saw him right then, but he was too consumed within his own hunger to care. 

The cupboard under the sink flashed at the back of his mind. There was more food in there. 

He rifled through the bottles of soy sauce and condiments, checking what he could eat on its own. There were a few cups of ramen noodles. He could eat them, but he needed to wait for the water to boil. He had no such time. 

Akaashi ripped open the lid and fished out the instant noodles. It crumbled in his hands, uncooked pieces scattering onto the floor. He chewed up the dryness in his mouth, salty and stinging. 

He realised the stinging was coming from his gums, cut up from the excess amount of hard noodles. He tasted blood in his mouth, but kept going. Grinding it into pieces with his molars. 

Something snapped inside of him. What would Bokuto say, if he were to behold his pitiful sight? He didn’t have a right to say anything, really. If he were still there, he wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t be desperately attempting to fill his chest up at dawn. 

He wouldn’t be doing this, if he’d said something. 

Akaashi opened his mouth, and vomited. 

He retched over the sink. His stomach clenched hard, and everything he’d eaten splattered below his face. He silently waited for the unpleasant ordeal to pass, shutting his eyes tight and running the taps. 

His chest tightened, and he choked on his own breath. No matter how much he threw up, he didn’t feel any better. It was the same emptiness, repeating itself in his chest. 

Once Akaashi was finally done washing everything down the drain, he turned around to see how much of a mess he’d made in the kitchen. Wrappers, plates and spilled food lay on the floor. Sunlight illuminated his sunken eyes. He needed to clean. 

He left no trace of his presence in the kitchen, despite the lack of food in the fridge pointing accusatory fingers at him. He spat into the sink again, as if to retaliate against them. 

*******

And when that was done, Akaashi headed upstairs, and changed into his uniform. Just another day’s start, without Bokuto. 

On the way to school, he picked at his stubby fingernails. There wasn’t much distraction without Bokuto. Bokuto wasn’t excitedly sharing news with him. The warmth that attached itself beside him wasn’t there. 

It was obvious to anyone and everyone that Bokuto was extremely attached to Akaashi. But Akaashi knew that if anyone was attached, it was him. He couldn’t even eat or sleep right without Bokuto. Bokuto’s okay was his okay. 

A familiar head of hay-coloured hair caught Akaashi. It was Konoha, who noticed him too. He headed over to Akaashi, mouth pulled into a tight frown. 

“Hey, Akaashi.” Konoha gave him a greeting, without his usual smile. “I need to apologize to you.” 

Akaashi shrugged. He didn’t feel any resentment towards Konoha. He was upset, and he said things he didn’t mean to everyone. He’d seen it happen many times over the past few days. 

“I blamed you for what happened to Bokuto. I’m sorry.” 

Akaashi thought he would have lashed out, or even hit him. Instead, he remained strangely calm. “It’s fine,” he replied, leaving everything else out. 

“Fuck. I miss him so much, Akaashi. He has to come back, he has to.” Konoha broke without much prompting. Tears welled up in his bloodshot eyes, reminding Akaashi of Kuroo at the wake. 

_ He will. He’ll bounce back like always.  _

Konoha collapsed into Akaashi’s chest, sobbing. Akaashi wrapped his arms around him and rubbed his back sympathetically, just like the times he’d comforted Bokuto. But the person in his arms was Konoha, choking on his breath as he cried. 

“What the fuck are you crying for?” A voice came from behind Konoha. “It’s too early in the morning for this. Just shut up.” 

Instantly, Konoha whipped around. Akaashi only had a second to grab him and prevent him from hitting the student square in the face. Konoha put up a fight, but eventually slackened against Akaashi’s grip, resorting to shooting daggers of sorrow. 

“Fuck you. If you’re  _ that  _ bothered, bring my fucking friend back. He’s dead. He killed himself,” Konoha ranted. “People like you drove him to suicide! Only giving a shit when his emotions are socially acceptable, and turning a blind eye the second he’s not blinding everyone with his smile. Why do you guys never think!? Bokuto wasn’t some happy-go-lucky robot. He was depressed, and he jumped in front of a train!”  

Akaashi tugged on Konoha’s arm, pulling him away from the forming crowd. He couldn’t stop him from punching the lockers, though. He bruised his knuckles, friction rubbing his skin off. He left drops of blood on the floor. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Konoha held his bruised hand in between his arm and his side. “I just- I still can’t believe that he died. It’s like… He’ll come back. He’ll come back, and it’s all going to be okay, and we can practice for nationals again. You know?” 

“Yes.” 

Akaashi knew exactly what Konoha meant. Inside him, hope was alive. Hope that whittled away every evening, when he read the articles and watched the news clip. A routine he kept to keep his denial in check. 

It was why, instead of crying, he heaved up stomach acid over a sink until his throat burned and his nose bled. It was why he couldn’t talk about Bokuto in the past tense. It was why he refused to believe that Bokuto’s life was over, just like that, with him buried into the ground. 

Part of him wished that he could be like Konoha. Grieving, acknowledging the anger and sadness. Vocalizing it all, slowly realising that Bokuto wasn’t coming back, and sobbing.

But he didn’t dare tell that to Konoha’s face. 

Akaashi told his mother instead. Or tried to, at least. She stared at him incredulously as soon as he came home from school, and it took him a second to figure out why she was looking at him that way. 

“Did you seriously eat all of that food alone?!” 

Akaashi nodded wordlessly. 

"Don't hurt yourself like that again. I know you've been throwing up, Keiji." She saw right through him, as usual. Akaashi already knew she'd found out everything. 

"Food is meant to nourish you." Akaashi noticed his mother place a plate of warm, plain rice onto the table. "So don't hurt yourself with it. Don't eat too much, too quickly." 

Akaashi reached for the chopsticks, different to the ones he’d used last night. “Mom,” he murmured, poking at the rice. “Can I boil some vegetables?” 

“I suppose,” she agreed reluctantly. “Don’t eat too much. I don’t want a repeat of what happened.” 

Akaashi threw some carrots and napa cabbages into the pot, turning on the heat and watching the vegetables soften. He decided to pour some soy sauce and sugar into it as a base of flavour, too. 

As he reached for the container of soy sauce, a low sizzle reached his ears. 

“What the hell are you doing, Keiji?! Take your hand off that!” 

A fresh, crackling burn mark etched itself on the side of his wrist. Now that his attention shifted to the injury, the pain caught up to him, waves of white-hot burning spreading into his skin. 

Akaashi rushed over to the tap, running his hand under cold water. He stared at the water swirling down the sink with a mixture of confusion and shock. He didn’t even realise it happening, and his heart was hammering in his chest. It was happening all too quickly. 

“Come here. It doesn’t look too serious, I’ll put a bandage on it. We’re going to the hospital if it gets worse.” 

His mother wrapped up his hand exasperatedly. Akaashi registered the pain once he was dragged back down to the ground again, from somewhere he hadn’t expected himself to float off to. 

“Is there something  _ wrong  _ with me, mom?” Akaashi asked, expression unchanging. “I couldn’t feel it burning me. I can’t feel anything. Nothing’s making me feel anything, ever since…” 

“Ever since he left.” Akaashi’s mother nodded. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Keiji. You’re just a normal person.” 

How  _ was  _ he a normal person? He couldn’t even function properly like one. His emotions didn’t come out. He was defective, even in his grief. He hated himself for it, but not enough to cry or scream. 

Kuroo, Konoha, even Kenma had their own ways of handling Bokuto’s death. Akaashi had nothing. It was what he was, without the stars to his moon.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments.. pleas

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments. They make my day.


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